


A son, long delayed. A father, long denied.

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Angst, But there IS hope (at the very end), Darth Vader (to the surprise of no one) is depressed, Darth Vader's POV, Emotional Hurt, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, Introspection, Luke and his father are hurting in this one, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Physical hurt, Post-Star Wars: A New Hope, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad, Serious Injuries, TW: Mental Health, Takes Place During The Empire Strikes Back, mention of drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 05:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20058754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: Darth Vader, Sith Lord, and right hand to the Galactic Emperor, has been fighting for a very long time (against the rebellion, againsthimself). But lately, it feels as if things are coming to a head, and Vader is unsure of what his future will hold if he remains on his current path. The Force practically screams at him thatchangeis coming to the galaxy— but from where, and in how long, he does not know.Lord Vader also does not know that he hasa son… until one day, hedoes.This is the story of how Lord Vaderdeals withprocesses the fact that he has a son, Luke. It is also the story where he decidesto changehis future.





	A son, long delayed. A father, long denied.

**Author's Note:**

> Set post _A New Hope_ and during _The Empire Strikes Back_, though events from both feature in this fic. Obviously, I do not own these characters; I borrow bits of dialogue from ESB (you'll know where). Time jumps occur, and (hopefully) the plot should follow canon fairly accurately (I did my best with the technical stuff, and details). I tried to get the time-line right too. If not, I claim First Fic (in this fandom, at least) rights, so be nice.

**Five months ago, Lord Vader’s private chambers, the_ Executor_, 0200:**

Vader wakes with a muffled, faint gasp. Anyone who might’ve heard it would have been shocked anyway— the Dark Sith Lord and **fear** (well, him _experiencing_ it) don’t exactly go together. Vader growls— a truly _terrifying_ noise— and the walls of his hyperbaric chamber creak, crumpling just a little. _Enough_, he tells himself, _this ridiculousness is unbecoming. Darth Sidious would_— the sound of further creaking distracts Darth Vader from his thoughts.

Though he needs sleep, Vader **also** requires an _intact_ hyperbaric chamber to do so. With an almost-inaudible sigh, he prepares himself for suiting up, and pushes away any remaining unsettlement. The night crew are overdue for an inspection, anyway. Once suited, the chamber opens with a faint hiss, revealing the terrible, dark metalloid form of Darth Vader, Sith Lord, and right hand to the Galactic Emperor himself.

Vader’s boots thump coldly against the ground as he strides from his chambers. As the doors hiss shut, he feels the Force twisting strangely about him. He pauses, intent for a moment, but the Force reveals nothing to him, so he puts it up to his lingering disquiet, and moves on.

Somewhere far, far away, Luke Skywalker has just learned that his father had been a **Jedi**, and that old Ben Kenobi once had been, too... and that he still has Luke’s father’s _lightsaber_.

**+Three months, Medical Center, the_ Executor_, 1400:**

“And what are your symptoms, my Lord?” asks the doctor. 

The medical examining table creaks beneath Vader’s gloves. Despite the facts that this is a private, sound-proofed room, and that the Medical Center has been cleared, he still feels reluctant to talk... yet, he knows that even his (usually) indomitable stamina is not boundless, and his work _will_ be effected, if some solutions aren’t found (perhaps this accounts for the princess’s escape, with the help of those infuriating rebels, and that curious _boy_, months ago). Vader swallows down the burning feeling, that of a supernova, and focuses on the _problem _at hand.

“I find my attention lacking, and have… difficulty maintaining meaningful periods of unconsciousness,” he answers stiffly. The doctor’s brow furrows momentarily, at his imprecise wording, and then he nods neutrally: continue. One irritated breath escapes Vader, before he suppresses the emotion behind it. “Fatigue, and some… irritability as well,” he admits coolly. The doctor nods again, but makes no comment (fortunate, for his continued survival).

After another moment of silence, the doctor glances him over briefly, and asks, “Have you had any troubles with your prosthetics, my Lord? Any pain?”

Vader grumbles a moment— _had he **said **that he had pain in his prosthetics_— and replies, “No. I have not.” The doctor pauses again, and lets out a brief, puzzled noise. The Sith Lord reminds himself that he will be no closer to a_ solution _if he Force-chokes the man. So he sits in silence.

“Perhaps... is there— my lord, Vader, may I... be frank?” the doctor asks, swallowing.

Vader reaches out with the Force: the man, much younger than he, swallows again. He is nervous, but determined, and has (as far as he knows, which is more than _most_) no ulterior motives. “Yes, you may,” he permits.

The doctor looks suitably relieved, for a moment, before steeling his features. _A wise move_, Vader thinks, half-amused, half-irritated. “Is there... I believe,” the doctor begins, stammering. Darth Vader sits up to his full height; if this rambling continues, he may have to... **reevaluate** this particular doctor’s _usefulness_. The man seems to realize this, because he tenses, steels himself, and pushes forwards. Vader relaxes, minutely, and is (despite himself) impressed at the other man’s ability to push forward.

“I believe this may be something... something that stems from _past injuries_, Lord Vader,” the man says finally.

Vader’s mask tilts curiously. “‘Past injuries,’” he says slowly, as if sounding the idea out, “_explain_.”

The doctor looks nervous again. “Well, my Lord, I believe it may be... more than **physical**, if you comprehend my meaning...” he trails off.

Vader chews these words over for a moment. His mask straightens, and his black, cold, nearly-featureless face turns to the doctor, who, despite himself, takes a half-step back. Vader certainly _does _‘comprehend his meaning’ but does not feel particularly **fond **of the man’s conclusions. “You mean to say the issue might be…” he concludes, unable to draw the rest of the statement out. _Such weakness! _he snarls at himself.

“Psychological,” the doctor finishes, almost apologetically. The man winces as the Sith Lord sharply turns to him, and as he hears the examination table _groan _under Vader’s fingers. _Psychological. What utter non-sense— _Vader stops that train of thought. He has… felt needlessly _disturbed _recently, so much so that it feels as if there is a _void _in the Force. Perhaps it is not so ridiculous a claim after all. The doctor (outwardly) calms, as Vader releases his grip on the table, finger by finger.

There is another moment of tense silence, but Vader feels through the Force that the doctor is not _scared_— well not as much as before— but rather focused. Then the man, who must feel relatively safe, for the moment, swallows again, and presses on: “Are there… any particular _events _that occurred around this time, my Lord? Perhaps your **issue **stems from them?”

For a moment, the room is held in deadly, claustrophobic stillness, as the Force seems to _tighten _over the room’s atmosphere, and then the medical table _crumples_. The doctor steps back with a sharp gasp. _Calm yourself_, Vader barks inwardly. His vocoder lets out a series of sharp hisses as he takes several deep breaths. _The twentieth anniversary of_ **_her _**_death— and his change— is approaching_, Vader recalls abruptly. “_Yes_,” he finally replies, “but that is not— the matter is not to be **discussed**. I simply need a solution. Or is that _above you_?”

The doctor looks truly nervous now, but after a tense moment (where his panic is bright in the Force) the man shakes his head rapidly. “N-no, my lord, Vader. Not at all. I believe I may… prescribe you something. For sleep,” he says. The doctor, shakily, retrieves a bottle of something, and hands it to Vader. Vader turns it over, and looks at the bottle. _Not ideal, not ideal at all_, he muses,_ but… perhaps better than the **alternatives**_. At his pause, the doctor stills. “Is this… is this acceptable, my Lord?” he asks.

Vader stands, cape flowing like death’s shadow behind him. “Yes. It is… acceptable. You have performed your duties adequately, doctor. Congratulations on your _continual employment_,” he says stiffly. Then Vader exits the room.

The doctor sags against the table, heart pounding. He breathes out a shaky sigh of pure relief. “Become an Imperial doctor,” he mutters sarcastically, “apply to work on the Sith Lord’s personal ship… what a _fantastic _idea.” After another moment, he wipes the sweat from his brow, and updates Vader’s medical file; work must go on, even if one is (rightly) _terrified_.

**+Four months, Lord Vader’s private chambers, the_ Executor_, 0400: **

_His fingers come up in that deadly arrangement, and Vader **feels **as if he is actually physically strangling her, can almost touch the outline of her delicate neck, beneath his Force grip. Red, red rage consumes him at the thought of her betrayal, and the Force flutters as he chokes her. Then, a weakening. He hears her throat convulsing as she gasps for air. But there is none. Padmé Amidala’s Force presence flickers, and Vader feels it extinguish, in one horrible moment. Gone. Burnt out. Snuffed. _

_Later, **after **Obi-Wan, he feels burning, indescribable pain (both physical and mental). <strike>Anakin</strike> Vader half-rolls towards the fiery death-liquid, and feels, himself, choked, at what he has done. He searches for Padmé, for **her** Force presence, but it is still gone. What has he **done**? What has he **done**? What has he **done**? There is a rending **hole **in the universe. Vader turns to the side, yellow eyes flickering, gasps, and wills his wrecked shell of a body to **die**, and join her. _

_What has he **done**?_

Again, he wakes with a gasp— though really, one may classify it as more of a _choked groan_. Either way, the walls of his chamber creak again (he will perhaps have to invest in stronger materials for it, or at the very least have the engineering crew check its structural integrity), and sits up. This time, he does not even wait for the suit to be fully on before he steps out of the chamber. Vader curses his own foolishness, and absently wishes that he had taken his _pills_; but again, in this, he is a stubborn _fool_.

Suitably, Vader gasps as the room’s air hits his weakened lungs— they are incapable of sustaining him alone.

He wonders, briefly, if this is how _she _felt, as she died— betrayed, scared, with **too little oxygen, and a sense of overwhelming dread and doom**. But no— that is _him_, in this moment, and Vader feels (distantly) his prosthetic legs impact against the floor.

Stars, it has been _twenty years _since Pa— since _her _<strike>loss</strike> <strike>death</strike> <strike>murder</strike> killing, and yet he _still_ feels torn asunder by it. Still wants **to die_, wishes he had just died_**. Why had the Force not done justice, and permitted his death? Twenty years, twenty long, harsh years, and Darth Vader, Sith Lord, wishes quietly that hot, molten death had taken him long ago on Mustafar—

But no, no he **does not**. That is _weakness_, weakness which the Sith Lord refuses to permit in himself. Vader forcefully recalls that, if he _had _died, he would have been unable to take his vengeance against those who _deserved it_, he would not have been capable of bringing order to the galaxy. He would not have the capacity to snarl in the face of the universe, for taking his wife from him— **no**, not for _this_ (Vader will permit himself much… _leeway_ in regard to whom he blames for the occurrences of his life, but not in **this**)— for making him so wretched. Determinedly, Vader closes off that hot, sweltering part of him. He rises to his feet, one shaky hiss escaping his vocoder, and enters the chamber once more.

He removes the mask. The bottle of pills rattles as he uncaps it hastily, taking two. Darth Vader’s spies have informed him that the rebels intend to move against the _Death Star _tomorrow, and he **must not** fail. 

Soon, the black tide of unconsciousness takes him, and Vader’s last thought is of the still-remaining _void _in the Force, at the lack of her presence.

**+48 hours, Lord Vader’s _TIE Advanced X1_, planet _Yavin_, _Yavin System_, 0800: **

A faint beeping, and then the sound of static, rouses him from his meditation. “L..rd… Vader?... This is Lieutenant… on the—. Come in— do you… Lord Vader?”

With a snarl of irritation (_finally, it took them **long enough** to respond to his distress beacon_), Vader hits the intercom button, and nearly snarls again at how his damaged prosthetic _tingles_— the electronics have gone slightly haywire since… **the** **events **that have recently transpired. “Yes, this is Vader. I copy,” he rumbles.

“What… is— position?”

“My instruments are damaged, and I am receiving no readings— I am in orbit of the planet _Yavin_,” Vader snaps impatiently; _is this not the **entire point **of distress beacons_?

“Very well… Can— survive… days?”

Vader hisses, and feels the ship’s dash creak under his gloves; no matter, his _TIE_ will need repairs anyway. Though it would be nice if he were able to keep the damage to his person minimal. “I am capable of surviving for up to a week in my ship, _lieutenant_. Though, for your sake, and the sake of your **fellow crew**, I do _hope _that my wait here will be shorter,” the Sith explains coolly (and imagines, distantly, that he can feel the man’s panic through the Force).

“Un…stood, Sir. Expect— soon.” With this, he slams a fist over the comms. button, and is only mildly satisfied to see it erupt in sparks. Without his consent, his right prosthetic twitches, and he feels an unpleasant charge run through his suit. _Ah, suns, but this is a **mess**_. His master will not be pleased.

“I should hope so, for your sake,” Vader mutters softly to himself. His gaze turns to the planet below, where he can still— infuriatingly— _sense _the young pilot who destroyed the _Death Star_. Curiously, he is strong with the Force. He makes a note to **investigate**, as soon as he is out of this damned system. Vader growls, and feels the armrests of the pilot’s chair beneath him crumble. _Stars_.

**+36 months, _Cloud City_, _Bespin_, _Anoat Sector_, 2100: **

Lord Vader is on his knees on the catwalk, one hand limply extended outwards towards the air shaft, mind stuck on recent events. Even after many minutes, he does not move. The Sith Lord’s gloved hands tremble, causing the ground to rumble beneath him, and minute cracks appear in the industrial floor. After a moment, Vader seems to shake himself, and lurches to his feet. He takes a few quick steps forward, until he is standing against the railing over the exposed air shaft.

The Dark Lord stares down the air shaft, feeling the catwalk’s handrail crumple beneath his tight gloved grip, and the floor trembles. Quickly, he suppresses his emotions; if he does not want to end up dea— like Lu— he needs to control himself. _Why had he not seen it earlier? **Why **had he not **acted**, as soon as the first suspicion of it crossed his mind? _The metal beneath his hands crumples further, and Vader takes a small step back, swallowing.

Again, he does not want to end up as— he does not want anything **unfortunate **happening. _Too late_, his mind snarls cynically, _it is **far **too late for that. Your son— Luke— is gone_. He is reminded of their battle, of the feeling (and smell) of his own blade’s wrath, as Luke’s hand— _he had cut off his own son’s **hand**_.

_Why had he not acted? He had <strike>suspected</strike> **known **that there was something… special about the boy since their very first encounter— the Force had told him so. Despite the… poor timing of it, he **should have **pursued the boy immediately after the battle of Yavin— should have realized <strike>then</strike> earlier who he was, from his brightness in the Force, if not his piloting skill, or (apparent) determination and will, or even his appearance (that blonde hair, those **eyes**). Part of him **had known**, but he had been too much a fool to accept it. For if the boy** was** his, then Vader had failed. He **has** failed, after Pa— **her **death, to protect what was hers— and is his_.

Vader steps back from the catwalk, and feels a ball of bitterness curdling his stomach, a fire burning in his aching chest. _He should have known_. But he had not, and when he _had _acted, it came too late. He recalls his son’s reaction to his words: _“No. That’s not true! That’s impossible!” _And then, the look of utter acceptance on his face, as Luke had looked down the air shaft… and leapt <strike>left him</strike>. The catwalk trembles as the black miasma that is his _feelings_ poisons the Force. With a great screech, and banging, the catwalk breaks loose of its moorings and falls down the air shaft. Vader’s clenched fists creak, and the already cracked floor buckles further underneath his feet.

“My Lord?” questions the quiet voice of a lone Storm Trooper, from the bottom of the stairs.

Vader spins, and the floor trembles again, so much so that the inept trooper struggles to maintain his balance. Vader can feel his fear through the Force, and he pictures how _easy _it would be to choke him, and send his body down the— **_no_**. “WHAT?” he snarls. At this, the man takes an intentional step back. Vader focuses on _not _destroying everything in his immediate vicinity— that _is not_ the proper reaction for a Sith Lord to have, no matter the level of loss.

“M-my lord, Vader, my m-men are— are wondering what we are to do with the remaining traitors, and rebels,” he stammers.

Vader pauses. Takes one last <strike>longing</strike> look over his shoulder, listens to the air howling down that fall into forever, and says coldly, “Find out which ones may have information. Kill the ones who are not useful. _I _shall deal with the rest.” He may not be able to make Obi-Wan suffer anymore, may not yet be able to make his master pay, but there are people who _will _pay for his son’s— _Luke’s_— demise today.

**+0 months, Bridge of the _Executor_, _Bespin_, _Anoat Sector_, 2121:**

Vader stares out at the numerous stars from his tight stance on the bridge, near his ship’s massive viewing platform. He wishes he could act on some of his… <strike>rage, frustration, pain, discomfort</strike>, _annoyance_, but alas, he **cannot**. Not if he wishes for his ship (and its crew) to remain _intact_, which he does. He sighs, and the sound (thankfully) does not escape his vocoder. The Sith can sense his officers waiting at attention for his next order— if things were _normal_, they would already be leaving this sector.

Needless to say, things are not _normal_.

The Sith Lord feels… oddly _numb_, as if he has taken some of his pills (which he _will _be doing tonight, for there is no possible way _in the galaxy_ that he will achieve rest otherwise). Suddenly, a bright stab through the Force makes his head rise sharply. Vader jerks forward, one gloved hand almost coming up to touch the window. _His son is **alive**. Luke is alive, and **still in danger**_. This is _unacceptable_.

“Lord Vader?” questions Piett. Vader turns swiftly. Piett continues, unshaken at having his commander’s full attention thrust on him, “We have just received word that the _Millennium Falcon_ has… escaped her containment.”

“I want all currently non-engaged pilots after that ship,” Vader barks, “and another detachment to scan the outer levels of Cloud City.” Piett nods, so he turns to the bridge crew at large, “I want all systems ready for full pursuit. We MUST NOT lose that ship,” he barks. After his order, there is a sudden outburst of frantic energy and movement.

Vader pays it no attention.

His hands form tightly-clenched fists which (if any observer had been looking) appear to _tremble_ slightly. The Sith resumes his earlier stance, and still appears to be staring out the viewport, at the galaxy in front of him. Abruptly, there is a sudden _spark _in the Force— his son has changed positions. He is no longer hanging precariously off the bottom of Cloud City. “Admiral Piett,” he barks. The man hurries over. “Belay my order to search the lower levels of the city. I want _all _pilots to engage that ship.”

Piett nods, already moving away. “Yes, my Lord.”

Vader turns again, and shuts his eyes behind the mask. He must _focus_, must reach out to his _son_ before it is too late. He sends dark tendrils out, and finds: _hurt,confusion,pain,**anger**,sadness, loss. Father— how was— **his**? Unacceptable (unwanted). What kind of…? Hurt. **Physical pain**. Oh stars, his arm, his arm. His fath— **Vader **had cut off his hand. Hurt, sadness, **anger**, **anger**, sadness, tears, tears._ Gasping slightly (another sound that his vocoder does not, thankfully, pick up), Vader withdraws slightly, reeling._ “Luke.”_

After a long, startled moment, the brightness of that Force presence (currently dimmed somewhat, after _his _actions) turns— reluctantly— to him. _“Father,”_ Luke’s ‘voice’ says. And _oh_, how familiar it sounds already. Vader’s still-clenched fist tightens further. His son’s presence is like a soothing balm against his (mental) wounds.

_“Son, come with me,” _Vader <strike>pleads asks</strike> **requests**. But his son’s presence slips from his grasp, turning inwards. Again, Vader is lashed by his son’s <strike>pain</strike> **_agony_**, and finds it almost a worse experience than the battlefields of Mustafar. He tries once more: _“Luke... it is your destiny.”_

_“Ben, why didn’t you tell me?”_ his son moans (to himself). And then, his presence is wrenched from Vader’s hold even more as that cursed ship, the _Millennium Falcon_, goes into hyperspace. Vader’s fist slams against the metal of the _Executor_, and rests in the dent it creates there. Admiral Piett looks at him, terrified.

But Vader pays him little attention. He straightens, and holds his arms behind his back, as his gaze again turns to the viewport, and seems to follow the Falcon’s path. His son has long delayed their meeting, but Vader will no longer be _denied_. His structured breathing rattles through the silence of the bridge. No one moves.

Finally, Vader stirs. He strides through the bridge and out its automatic doors. There has been a great disturbance in the Force, and the Sith Lord now knows what he must do, what is destined. _I will find you, Luke_, he promises himself— his son?— _and when I do, we will rule the galaxy, **together**_.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. So, if you are one of my regular readers, I get that you're probably thinking: _Star Wars?!? Whaaaattt? Why is she writing **non-DC** stuff?_ and yes, I understand your surprise (this is **definitely** not my usual fandom). 
> 
> However (like many, many people), I watched the original movies growing up (and unfortunately, the prequels too). As you all know, I _adore_ angst, and that, my dear readers, is what attracted me to _Star Wars_, because there is. So. Much. Angst. Here. I also love *complicated* interpersonal relationships and, ahem, there are also an abundance of those in this universe. 
> 
> So, though it is far from my main fandom(s), and not something I interact with *that* often, I wanted to try my hand at writing it. Also, as you (probably) know, I haven't written (or updated) anything in... _a while_ so I wanted to get my creativity flowing with some no-pressure, unrelated-to-my-normal-fics writing. So, here it is. Enjoy. 
> 
> P.S., I use military time, so here is [a helpful chart](http://militarytimechart.com/), if you're interested.


End file.
